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Thread: verses, not linked.

  1. #1
    eimhin's Avatar
    eimhin is offline Twelever TwelevePlus
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    Default verses, not linked.

    So, a sampling:

    verse 10
    ephemeral equitones engendered racy speeches given by cells
    in their death-throes, trailing flagella in the race to escape
    driving cattle-herder virus-cowboys driving them from cliff edges
    catapaulted through scraped denial esophagal caverns and
    off the enameled bone-ledges to swim in the great counter-clockwise
    sea; see your tissues dismembering their thinnest layers to purge,
    a whole being of an unclean hole in the fabric of the clean digestive
    system; intrepid explorer mites drafting the great unknown outside.
    though the system is enclosed, all things must have a frontier and cells,
    driven caddycorner to their prescribed lives are the murdered expedition
    on the forefront of biological discovery,
    and hoping despite shaking, shuddering, blundering, bile-projections
    for recovery of a quickened state lasting beyond the next growth cycle
    of these internal environs hosting a slew of unfortunate and unwanted
    holiday guests who’re messing up the house in spite of the posted warning
    signs by policing white blood cells on the walls of capillary and kidney.
    intrusion isn’t quite the correct stance to take with the sleep-deprived,
    cold and clammy, cowering on the tile floors of everyone’s favorite
    throneroom, crowned in sweat or the scent of cells on their way out,
    intensely fluid caravans lingering irksomely in sight and smell--
    their former castle lying in temporary ruin, skewed from normalcy
    by a tiny, divisive microbian siege

    Verse 12
    Alights the control, questioning recapsulated—
    in my mind’s eye alights frustration, and so betrothéd
    its brother angst, this real-life most—
    frankly and thoughts though previously uninhibited,
    deliciously indecent this idea entrenched fleetingly
    on the cusp of hinterlands: cerebral borderlines;
    unmarked thought this marker can’t
    scribe the right lines.
    Are they rhymes I speak of crossing “i” and doting “t”s
    on the shuddering drums of downy surface?
    If your aural recollections won’t speak near so clear
    as my remembrance of the times’ sonic meanderings, then why?
    Decide to listen with (in reality)
    a much less attentive ear than we bear for each fallen tear
    those times I cried,
    like the world was gone and you with it?
    Bereft this year of loss, I’ve found a better shelter from those
    storming the castle confounding those
    tears once shed onto their attentive ears…
    And can’t we writ this in script as harkened to, as weathered,
    as stone scribbles on sheltered tombs,
    and carry that tune of permanence, our theme and cadence,
    into the way that, each day, we live—
    recalling anew the unbeknownst rejuvenation of words:
    given ambrosia to wearied bones,
    when in 65 years’ time it’s still a damn fresh line?
    Of sight clearer than unattended privacies whispered once upon a—
    What were we talking about?
    Right! And the happenstance of forgetfulness trails its blurring fingers
    over moments once figured immortal;
    how droll that assumption of eternity
    for microcosmic instances only retain the vivacity of youth while curing;
    in truth they can be prepared for forever and still,
    eventually be killed by neglect.
    I can only bring to mind the realities in kind that I experience daily:
    our splendor leeched, a mediaeval medicant applied to this
    supposedly unending year of lover’s bliss…
    Can’t that be missed if your trysts aren’t recalled in time,
    when a heart needs such history; when the only malady is morbidity of hope?
    A crime, heinous yet plain to see—the norm;
    to take every instant of gracious love given free,
    given she, given you for granted.
    Easy to hamper your thoughts with other things,
    we can’t pay mind to anything taking away from our entertainment,
    this glorious creature, our child of enmeshed willfulness,
    this grandiose mothering creation of chemical psychotrope etherials,
    believable in the median of your own hoped-for choir—
    chanting christening in individual universality.
    No scraping of counterfeit reality here, crying sobs uplifting any involved;
    we solved only through recitation of banality’s counter-curse—that is—
    rehearse your lines now!
    Impress how we dwell forever in the house of two-
    morrow begins with the mantra:
    “Every avenue of altruistic pairing—
    we will find paths known a thousand times before,
    and unknown finding, light them all anew.”
    As in this, you—and I—as such, unassailably immortal, deaf, too:
    to aught but the chorale perfected in repetetive memory shared,
    bearing an overflowing cup on the cusp of our place in time and space.

    verse 13
    It's all not quite sound, he shouted
    Yet only calls about it
    On Tuesdays when 'tis valid
    Rescinding brightly falling
    As sparks of jeopardizing
    Nature not his own is founded
    On troubled, listless headlands
    Sighted from the backs of dragons

    Not to whit the dreams you mentioned
    But only on a slow-peaked mountain
    Topped the week off, rockets skyward
    Hopes soaring heaven-high, bird
    Can such prescience ever turn tricks
    When it breaks all your pleasant hijinks
    Down to this elemental pitter-patter
    Holy clouds scud whipping tatter
    Yet I see the sleepy truth heave,
    A soaking skirmish brought to no grief
    Crafty dancers breathing song

    I can't take a path so hectic
    Still, I frighten, laying thoughts thick
    Pelted, scurry, hide the paper
    Look out, peering smile vapor
    Isn't when the lovely now then?
    Feeling only rushing windjinn
    Course the nasal nervous pasture
    My eyes belie the greyful after
    Crying rays of astral comfort

    Slippage rock strewn mental heartbeat
    Is a memorizing sure feat
    Soft the total roaring creatures
    Captured free on pebble beaches
    Proscribed livid, lovely washing
    Sanguine all the tinges catching
    Follow mornings, under raindrop
    Carefully nucleic soul top
    Benign junk to call the host in
    Particulars unchained the welkin

    You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts... and in much of your talking, thinking is half-murdered..." - Kahlil Gibran

  2. #2
    spiderman's Avatar
    spiderman is offline Kidnapped... and all I got was this stupid user title. TwelevePlus
    spiderman will become famous soon enough
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    Feb 2005


    I'm sorry I missed this when it was originally posted. Pretty good stuff - particularly #12.

    More, please?


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